


first love;

by jungnoir



Category: K-pop, 방탄소년단 | Bangtan Boys | BTS
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Eventual Fluff, F/M, Runaway Bride, Temporarily Unrequited Love, best friend!yoongi, engaged reader, smut but it's only implied
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-28
Updated: 2019-06-28
Packaged: 2020-05-28 08:23:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19390264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jungnoir/pseuds/jungnoir
Summary: summary:yoongi meets you, seated next to him at a familiar brown piano, and he steals you away hours before your wedding day, seated next to him at a familiar brown piano + yoongi’s been in love with you since childhood and he only has the courage to tell you when you’re about to marry someone else.





	first love;

_A bang, screams, laughter… a wedding_. Yoongi has never hated being somewhere more.

Well, it’s almost a wedding. He’s seated at the same table as the parents of the handsome soon-to-be groom and the beautiful soon-to-be bride, you, but he doesn’t belong there. The black haired boy is sitting amongst all of your family and friends and while they yell and dance in happiness, give out hugs to each other as if this is the very best day of their lives, he sits, a fake smile on his mouth as colorful confetti rains from the ceiling. It sticks to his hair and his face, and he feels sick.

There you are, twirling in your dress and it’s so beautiful, but it doesn’t suit you. It’s too big, too flashy, it’s not you at all. He knows, because he was there when your fiancé stuffed the dress in your hands with a too tight smile and said, “I only want the very _best_ for you.” 

Your makeup is too heavy; it’s obvious you’ve asked that all your imperfections were to be hidden because the groom’s mother was watching with a pointed gaze and a stiff upper lip. 

Your dance is too timid, you can’t even enjoy yourself at your rehearsal dinner because _his_ family is watching. They’re always watching.

Yoongi wasn’t sure why you signed your life away to the son of a major conglomerate when there was so much more life you wanted to live. He knew as soon as that man put the real wedding band on your finger, you were always going to be seen as the trophy wife. He could see you now, suffering every holiday under the scrutinizing glare of the groom’s family as you continued to over-perform, overwork yourself, all to look like you were worth it. You shouldn’t have to prove your worth, and yet here you are.

Yoongi burns with an anger he understands fully, an anger he’s felt since he’d come back from school in Seoul, back to your hometown in Daegu, only for you to greet him with the news that you were getting married right out of college. It felt too sudden, and he had seen the apprehension in your features first six months ago when you had confessed it to him.

* * *

**six months ago**

_“I don’t think we’ve had a minute alone to ourselves since you came back.” You whisper to Yoongi, your back flat against the roof of his family’s house as you both watch the sun set together. Yoongi smiles softly, turning his head just a little to see your serene expression. He’d missed you since he’d left to go to school out in Seoul, and while you visited when you could, it was never enough. He had even joked the day before he left for school that he’d have to double check that you hadn’t folded yourself up in his suitcase to stay with him. You had warned him that was a serious possibility._

_“We haven’t. I think my family likes you more than they like me, though.” Yoongi sighs, earning an easy-going laugh from you. He’s proud he can still make you laugh like that. “What’s been up with you? You seem stiff tonight.” He inquires, hands folded nonchalantly across his waist as the stars begin to appear._

_When you don’t answer right away, Yoongi frowns and looks over to see your bottom lip caught between your teeth, your gaze far away and unsteady. He watches for a few moments before he reaches a hand out to cup your cheek, turning you toward him. Your eyes immediately lock with his, and he swears you lean a little into his palm before you pull him away, breaking the gaze between you two. He frowns even more when you drop his hand back into his lap, and he turns on his side to face you fully, about to threaten you with no chocolate cake if you don’t spill, when your breath falls out shakily, “I’m getting married.”  
_

_Yoongi’s world, up until this point, has been spinning just fine. But those three words send such a shock through him that he loses his breath and his mind goes blank. All he can focus on is you and your sad eyes and your mouth turned down into a frown. “Y-you’re…. who?”_

_“I met him at college here. We’ve been dating since freshman year, and he… when we graduated he just proposed. He says he loves me a lot, and that we should get married in the Spring. He wants a big wedding, really flashy. He wants to invite everyone I know and he’s already setting up a place for us here in Daegu. You should see it Yoongs, it’s a really nice penthouse right down the street from his company. Perfect for… perfect for-” “A trophy wife.” Yoongi finishes, his mouth set into a firm line as you sigh.  
_

_He doesn’t need to hear more to know that’s exactly what you’ll be to that man. It’s obvious, whoever this big shot, he wants to take that spark and freedom from your life before you even give it a chance to manifest. He can see the look of complacency in your face even when you try to hide it with an apathetic expression, a trick you’d learned from him after seventeen years of friendship._

_“He’s good to me, Yoongi. He wants me to live a leisurely life with him, one where I don’t have to worry about how I’ll get by… I’ll be safe.” You try to convince him, your hand attempting to find his, but he moves away before you can grab a hold of him.  
_

_“You’ve been telling me about what he wants, but you haven’t told me what you want. If I recall, you went to school with the dream of traveling. Is that not something you want anymore?” “It is.” “How can it be if you’re marrying… who is this guy anyway?”  
_

_You gulp, “The heir of Kang Group.”_

_If Yoongi’s expression didn’t tell you how exasperated he was with you, his next words did, “Right. Okay, so you’re marrying this really successful, rich guy who will most likely be working more than he is at home with you. Is that what you want? And how will you see the world if you’re expected to look like the perfect wife for that guy? He’s in magazines, (Y/N)! People are constantly looking at this guy, critiquing his every move. That’s going to be you in a few months.”_

_“Yoongi, I didn’t tell you so you could scold me.” You say crossly, your patience wearing thin. You knew he wasn’t going to like it, no matter how you phrased it. He had never been very agreeable with you boyfriends in the past, though, granted, they all had turned out terrible. “I feel like you don’t trust me to make a good decision for myself.”  
_

_“I don’t. Otherwise, I would have said congratulations and moved on.” Yoongi knows he wouldn’t have even then, but you didn’t need to know.  
_

_“I’m not… asking you to be okay with it. I’m just asking for you to be happy for me, even if it’s not totally real. I need you, Yoongi. You’re my anchor.”  
_

* * *

**now**

In hindsight, he should’ve known that it would end up like this. He shouldn’t have listened to you, shouldn’t have stayed so complacent when you showed obvious signs of discomfort. He should have said something, should have interfered- 

“Yoongi?” Your laugh catches him off guard, and when he brings himself back to reality, there you are, right before him and holding out a hand to take. The spotlight is on the both of you all of a sudden, a chorus of cooing falls on the crowd as you urge him to stand. When he does, you hook your fingers with his and smile, “I want to have a dance with my best friend at my wedding too.”

Immediately, Yoongi’s hand clams up. You wanted him to dance with you, in front of everyone? Including your fiancé who, by the way, didn’t like him at all? He was close to tugging you back and telling you no, but then you had him in the middle of the dance floor with your arms locked around his neck, staring into his eyes with a relieved smile. He realizes why you’ve asked him to dance at once. 

“You’ve been sitting still all night. I thought if I didn’t ask you to dance you’d fall asleep on me.” You chuckle, letting him rock you side to side to the gentle song over the speakers. Yoongi makes eye contact with your fiancé over your shoulder, and resists the urge to smirk at his displeased look. Looking back at you, he hums, hands clutching on to your waist a little tighter, “Almost did. This DJ is lame. You should’ve just hired me.” 

You giggle impossibly loud, even snorting, and you quickly move to cover your mouth in embarrassment as Yoongi grins down at you. You hadn’t genuinely laughed all night, and he knew as much, even with how lost he was in his own memories. If he could get you to at least be a little happy tonight, he’d be fine with just that. 

“How does it feel to be unofficially married?” Yoongi decides to ask. He does his best to ignore the slight flinch in your features when he does. 

“Kind of underwhelming,” you laugh awkwardly, making sure to whisper closer to his ear in fear your fiancé’s family might hear you, “I expected more… but maybe it’s just because it’s not official yet.” You say, absentmindedly playing with the hair at the nape of his neck. His neck is covered in goosebumps under your touch, his cheeks beginning to redden as you trail your fingernails along his scalp. Gulping down a contented sigh, Yoongi nods, “Yeah. Probably.”

“After this, do you wanna come back with me to my family’s place so I can pack up the rest of my things? They’re going out with the Kangs, so It’ll be just me and you.” “You’re not gonna ask the groom to help?” He asks, eyebrows raised as you shake your head. “Says he can’t see me before the wedding after midnight. Some old tradition his family had… anyway, there’s something there I wanna show you.” 

Yoongi’s interest is piqued as he looks at you, attempting to decipher what it is you want to show him, but you don’t give anything away, smiling wryly.

* * *

He follows you into your house for what feels to be the last time, kicking off his shoes into the familiar nook beside a book case as you disappear deeper into the house. He doesn’t teeter after you like you’re expecting, but rather strides by, absorbing all there was to see before you inevitably moved out. He’d have virtually no reason to visit here anymore, and the thought pains him more than he can say. 

He passes through the hallway that spills into the living room, and his eyes immediately find your family’s wall of photos, most of them just pictures of you growing up and a few distant relatives. He smiles when he sees a picture of you, chubby-cheeked and barely a month old, being rocked in your father’s arms. As he nears closer to examine it, his gaze gets pulled to the right, and had he not been paying attention, he might’ve missed it entirely.

It was smaller than the rest, the frame barely big enough to fit in the palm of his hand. It was a picture of you and him at eight years old, your arms linked and your smiles never wider. You and him were missing a few teeth, his hair was still the shape of a coconut, and you had freshly chopped bangs, but neither of you had been too concerned with your appearances back then. Yoongi traces a finger along the crystal-encrusted frame, his smile turning sad the longer he stares.

It’s only when he feels your arms snake around his waist that he jolts; you’re standing behind him, a hand taking his arm and wrapping it behind your head so that you’re tucked under it, your grin widening when you see what he’s looking at, “That’s us,” You whisper with a giggle, “we don’t look all that different.” 

Yoongi scoffs and playfully shoves your arms locked around his waist, but you don’t break the hold, and it maybe makes his heart flutter more than it should. You were his best friend, _no_ , fuck that, you were getting married to another man. What was the point of letting his feelings do this to him when it was fruitless? No, he could swallow the love for you down in countless cups of coffee and starve off the effects of loneliness well enough. He’d been doing it for months. What was the rest of his life?

But, as if your instincts are aware of his turbulent thoughts, your arms grow impossibly tighter around his thin middle, “Yoongs? You stuck in there?” You inquire, raising a fist to gently knock against the side of his head. He stirs but doesn’t answer.

With a definitive grunt, you unlock your arms around his waist and he pretends not to miss your warmth. Tugging on the camo jacket he had thrown over his tux, you pull him with you through the house, “I guess you’ll want all your old stuff outta here too, before I go. I’m sure mom and dad won’t mind you coming by to get it, but-” “I’d rather take it with me tonight.” Yoongi answers, gently pulling his arm away from your grip. You turn to shoot him a confused look, and even though he smiles and shoos you to move on, you don’t buy his mood as unbothered.

Truthfully, you had been noticing all night.

It was probably unfavorable of an engaged woman to pay so much attention to another man on the night of her rehearsal dinner, but you couldn’t give a damn. He was your friend, and he had been staring at his feet like a kicked puppy all night. You had assumed at first that it was probably being suffocated in a tux for more than an hour, or maybe it was having to brush his messy hair into something akin of an actual, presentable style, or maybe it was the stuffy way your fiancé’s family looked at him when he passed by, but Yoongi had not been himself for a while. 

You would pass your worry off as just friendly, because he _was_ your best friend, but the worry ran deeper than that… it made it hard to feel happy for what was to come soon. And, if we’re being honest, even if Yoongi was happy for you, you probably would still have the unruly worry tearing your insides apart. 

It had started out timid, a simple poke whenever your fiancé touched you, a nudge when he kissed you, a kick when he made love to you (was it making love? you felt more like a pillow he’d rut on until he was satisfied), and then suddenly, you started feeling nauseous whenever he locked eyes with you. If your phone rang, you would dread the contact being his name. If you would feel a presence behind you, you’d prepare yourself for his sloppy kisses and grubby hands… you hadn’t realized until recently that your gut was telling you the man you were going to marry was not a man you wanted to spend the rest of your life with. You had also realized that your violent symptoms only grew with more wasted time. Tonight? You felt like your chest was being torn apart.

Yoongi made it better.

You would drag him to dress fittings, cake tastings, call him over the phone about the color scheme and “should I seat aunt Maxie near the DJ booth? I don’t want her to request George Michael’s discography in the middle of the party”. Yoongi was, in short, your breath of fresh air, your lifesaver in the middle of the storm.

Your first love. You had sobbed for three hours when you had realized it the first time.

The wedding plans were well underway when you had, and suddenly, you felt filthy after every call, after every hug you shared, after every glance that meant something more to you than you thought meant to Yoongi. You had tried your best to shut him out, but you couldn’t help imagining, in the midst of your fiancé taking you to bed… _what if these hands were Yoongi’s?_

“I remember this.” Your heart jumps when you notice you’ve long since arrived in your bedroom, and now you’re standing in the middle of it with wide eyes as Yoongi grins. He’s holding up a dirtied, torn leather diary, a diary that you had shared with Yoongi when you both had no secrets to keep from the other. “You fought Ah Junki for it when he snatched it off you at recess. You gave him a black eye.” He chuckles at the memory, long fingers (clad in his favorite metal rings) gliding along the book with a warm look in his eyes. You match the look and walk over, gently taking the book from him to flip it open. On the very first page, in crayon chicken scratch, there are the words **“DO NOT READ. THIS BELONGS TO BEST FRIENDS YOONGI AND (Y/N).”**

“We were cute,” you giggle, “I think I remember you helping deliver that black eye, by the way.” “No, no, that was all you, princess.” He laughs, and you turn your face away at the nickname, hoping he doesn’t notice the effect it has on you.

He’s flipping the pages until he freezes, his fingers grazing the food and paint stained pages to see… music notes.

“(Y/N)… do your parents still have that piano?” Yoongi suddenly asks, shutting the diary in your hands as you furrow your brows. “Yeah,” you answer, “why?”

He does not answer as per usual, just takes your hand in his and simpers, pulling you with him to the basement.

* * *

**seventeen years ago**

_The curiosity of a child could never be satiated, you had learned earlier on in life. You had been eyeing the piano at your school for weeks now, your music teacher taking pride in knowing you were so interested in it, even if it was from afar. He had not approached you to talk about it, had simply watched you watch it, waiting for the day you might finally fix up the nerve to ask how to play. Mr. Choi knew that the curiosity would eat away at you until you did, and he was in no hurry to rush you._

_Sometimes, even during class, you’d fixated on the instrument with a dazed look on your face. You would imagine yourself sitting at it like Mr. Choi would, with legs a little longer and fingers a lot faster, a lot less sticky. You’d play something really grand, like the stuff Mr. Choi would listen to while grading papers, except better. That was your goal anyway, but you hadn’t quite gotten to the part of initiating such goal. For now, it seemed looking was enough._

_One morning, you had come to school exceptionally early, and there were barely any students or teachers around yet. Before you knew it, you were headed for the music room._

_It was quiet, barely a voice or sound in sight on this side of the school, and you were sure you were completely alone._ _So, you could imagine your fright when you had slipped into the music room and came face to face with raised eyebrows, “You’re not supposed to be in here.”_

_You yelped, but covered your mouth before it came out. Before you was a boy no older than you, with a short, bluntly cut head of pitch black hair sticking up in every which way as he stared at you. You had seen him at the front of your class a few times, but you had never really gotten to speak to him before. As far as you were concerned, he didn’t want to speak to you either. “Why not?” You ask, peeling your hand from your mouth._

_He opens his mouth as if to reply, but all you hear is a soft huff of breath before he’s closing his mouth again, at a loss for words. Then, folding his arms over his chest, he pouts, “Because I don’t want you in here.”_

_At this, your tense shoulders droop and you roll your eyes, “Your reason is stupid.”_

_Rather eloquently, he retorts, “No, you’re stupid!”_

_“I just want to play the piano.” You say, voice growing soft as you stare past him, your heart filling with joy at the sight of it. At this, he blanches, looking back to match your line of sight. And then he looks at you again, and his eyes warm a bit, “You… like the piano?”  
_

_All you do is nod, stepping further into the room, watching his expression for any signs of danger. When he shows none, you confidently walk toward the piano bench and sit, your hands gently running over the keys with a smile on your face. You’re still timid, not knowing what you could really do with the instrument just yet._

_The strange boy walks over to you and watches your hands float above the keys, waiting impatiently for you to do something. “You said you wanted to play. So play.” “I don’t know_ how _.”_

_The boy frowns cutely, his eyes casting away from yours to look over the piano. Gently, he slides onto the piano bench beside you. As soon as he does, he picks up your hand in his, placing it carefully on the keys, and uses his thumb to push your index finger down on a black key. The sound is sour, and you attempt to pull your hand away, but the boy is smiling at you now, his eyes kind, “Wait. It gets better.”_

_And then he uses your finger to press down on a white key, the sound a lot more pleasant. You grin and look up at him, “More!”_

_Biting his lip, he releases your hand and places his own in its place, his fingers stretched so that you can clearly see where they lie. Softly, he presses two white keys at a time, an looks over at you, “Do that.”_

_And you do._

_Time seems to pass too quickly as he shows you more combinations, explains to you the sounds you can make (”this is C major” “the more you practice, the faster you can go” “don’t press so hard, this song is soft, okay?”), and all the parts of the piano. It’s only when a teacher walks by the room and finds you, does the fun end._

_Yoongi reluctantly slips off the bench, beginning his walk to the door of the classroom, but you’re quick on your feet and tumble after him, grabbing onto his shirt with desperation. He turns, and with his wild, funny hair and curious eyes, you realize you’ve found a friend in him. “Will you teach me a song one day?” You ask, voice hopeful._

_Yoongi nods, but it isn’t enough._

_You boldly link your pinkies and he stares at you like you’re crazy, but you can’t care, flashing him a toothy (the actual amount of teeth was lacking, but I digress) smile, “Promise?”_

_The teachers are calling you again and he starts to panic. It’s obvious you won’t be letting go until he promises, so with a quick “I promise!”, he shoves your hand off and runs in the direction of the teacher, oblivious to your beaming smile. “I’m (Y/N) by the way!” You yell, catching his attention as the teacher takes his hand._

_He looks over his shoulder once more, right before he turns the corner, “Min Yoongi!”_

* * *

**now**

He hadn’t broken his promise since you two had made it, all those years ago in front of a brown piano.

He looks over the one your parents own now, the same one given to you when Mr. Choi retired and the school issued for a newer one. Mr. Choi had been very adamant on the piano getting a good home, and he was sure you and Yoongi would take good care of it. After days of pleading, your parents won out in who would take the piano home to keep. Suddenly, Yoongi was coming to your home after school everyday just to play it with you. It was old, but it still played like a beauty as Yoongi ran his fingers down the keys one at a time, “Feels like decades since we last saw this thing.”

You giggle, blowing some dust from the keys. “It’s only been since high school ended.” “Decades.” He echoes, making you giggle again. 

“I remember it took your parents forever to force us off this thing. We’d play them lullabies on this piano if we could.” As he says this, he takes a tentative seat at the piano bench, and drops his weight when the wood holds. You do the same, a bit more trusting as you scoot against him. 

“How’s work producing?” You ask, eyes alight as he looks over at you. The only light in the dark basement is the small light bulb hanging above you and the moonlight streaming through the small windows near the ceiling, and it illuminates the sharp edges of your best friend’s jaw as he smiles, “Keeps me busy. Seoul’s nice in the Spring, you should visit more often. Namjoon is hard at work with his new mixtape, and I think I’m about to sign a deal with this new rookie idol. Could be making the next ‘TT’.”

“Oh no, no one man can top ‘TT’. That is a masterpiece beyond its time.” You acclaim, moments before Yoongi shoves you lightly to the side, rocking you and making you laugh.

What once felt like oceans between you and Yoongi’s adolescent bodies now felt like nothing but a breath, his jacket brushing against yours. He shifts uncomfortably for a moment, swears, and then he’s tugging it off.

He throws his own jacket on top of the piano, and then he thrusts his suit jacket to the side, his tie following suit. Unbuttoning the first few buttons of his white shirt and shoving his sleeves up his arms, he’s finally allowed a comfortable breath of air. “Don’t dirty your suit,” you scold, “you need it tomorrow.” 

At the mention of tomorrow however, you both still. The air grows thick as you both savor what looks like the last few hours of freedom for either of you. Freedom for you to be like this with Yoongi, freedom for Yoongi to be like this with you.

Instead of answering you, Yoongi lets his fingers ghost the keys of the piano, and then he plays.

It’s a slow, sad sounding melody that whips you to attention. All you can focus on is the way his fingers move across the keys, the way the sound reverberates in the old basement, and the way Yoongi’s eyes flutter shut. You had seen Yoongi play countless times, losing himself to the music. Magical was how you’d describe it, but the word felt lacking. Iridescent? Otherworldly? Bewitching? The longer you tried to list the words in your head, the more dissatisfied with your lacking vocabulary you became. Because there was no word to describe what Yoongi’s music could do to you, what Yoongi could do to you.

In a moment of bliss, you sit next to your best friend and first love, and his music carries you away to a world where tomorrow won’t be spent fretting over yourself for the rest of your life in front of a man you’ve grown to despise. His music carries you to…

_White._

Curtains of white, fluttering in the Spring breeze. Yoongi is wrapped around you in your shared bed, in an apartment deep in Seoul, where mom and pops stores litter the streets and you two share the food they sell as you walk to wherever, hand in hand. Yoongi stays up late making music, and you stay up with him, bringing him coffee and kissing him for good luck. You trip over his clunky combat boots by the front door every morning, no matter how much you yell at him to put them away, and he pokes fun at the multicolored bowls and mugs that fill your kitchen. His music carries you away to a world where you marry him.

You don’t realize you’re crying until Yoongi’s music halts abruptly and his cool hands are grabbing your cheeks between them, brushing away the salt water. He doesn’t ask you anything, just lets you fall into him as you sob into his shirt. His arms are wrapped around you as he gently hoists you into his lap, letting his hand rub your back to comfort you. He knows. You never have to tell him. He knows.

“I don’t want to marry him, Yoongi.” You cry, voice barely inaudible through the snot and tears. “I don’t, I don’t want this life. I want to be with you.” Your last statement catches him off guard, but you don’t let him ask you about it. “I love you. Please… I don’t want him, I want you.” 

Tears are streaming down his face now, but not out of sorrow. Years of unrequited love weren’t so unrequited after all. 

You loved him too.

Carefully wiping your face with the back of your dress sleeve, you watch as Yoongi’s lips turn up into a teary smile, “Finally, you idiot.”

It’s messy, your first kiss with your best friend. Your teeth clash at the sheer desperation to touch each other but you don’t mind, moans of appreciation and the excitement to explore what was deemed so off limits clouds your consciousnesses. His hands hook around your waist, fingers pressing hard into your hips as yours find purchase in his hair, gently tugging to bring about a moan or two. 

Your legs straddle him on the bench even though your knees hurt, and his mouth grows more impatient as it trails down your neck, only to be stopped by the high collar of your dress. At first, he stares, seemingly lost in thought, and then there’s a satisfying, clean _rip!_ that draws a laughing gasp from your lips. “Yoongi! You ripped my dress!”

He grins as your front is exposed to his greedy gaze, eyes sliding up your skin to meet yours as he shrugs and gives a very unapologetic “oops” in response. “He bought this for you?” He whispers, right before his mouth makes contact with your neck. 

“Yeah. Hate it to bits. Costs a fortune, though.” “Want me to tear it some more?”

You look down to see Yoongi is very much not kiding with this offer, his hands finding the ripped seam and clenching into fists, ready to destroy it all. You nod and give him the go ahead, and his mouth falls open in a groan as he sees your body on full display. He had dreams of this, both of his own creation and others that sneaked up on him in the middle of his sleep, but none of them compared to this moment. You were fucking _stunning_. “Can I take my time?” He whispers, almost like an excited child.

And of course, how could you say no?

* * *

What feels like hours later, you are dressed in an old tee shirt and jeans, wrapped in Yoongi’s arms in your bed. He’s since changed into clothes he’d left at your house ages ago, which (hilariously to you, not to Yoongi) still fit him like a glove. His fingers hadn’t stopped brushing over your skin since, almost as if he was starved for your touch. You couldn’t necessarily blame him; it’d take an army to rip you off of him now.

“We… really did that, didn’t we?” You asked quietly, the sound of his breathing and yours intermingling in the night air. It was almost midnight and your parents had informed you that the Kangs were still partying hard, so they’d be a bit late getting home on time. Which, honestly, you didn’t give a shit about.

“Yeah,” he says with a breathy laugh, “do you regret it?” 

“Not at all.” You say back. He mumbles “good” against your skin, his nose trailing along your neck as he leaves gentle, subdued kisses there.

“Yoongi?”

“Hm?”

“…I wanna run away with you. Would you do that with me?”

Your heart is beating so wildly that you think it might just beat right out of your mouth and into his hands. As if it wasn’t in his hands already. 

He softly breathes against your collarbone, fingers drumming against your skin as he contemplates the idea. You would run far, to where Yoongi found solace in the heart of Seoul with his six best friends who love to make music. And you would live, and travel, and breathe. Your chest aches with want, and the need for Yoongi to just say- “Yes. In a heartbeat.” He finishes your thought with ease.

His lips find yours once more, this kiss a lot softer, a lot cooler than the hot kisses you’d shared only an hour ago. This one is sweet, laced with a promise. 

You don’t realize it is one until you feel Yoongi’s pinkie curl around yours, your eyes widening at the familiarity. “Let’s run away, princess.”


End file.
